randesq
02-13-2005, 05:24 AM
I posted this on the other board, i'll follow with another 6. Tear it apart.
OVER: Heavy breathing, near hyperventilation.
FADE IN:
EXT. MARSH – GREYSTONES, IRELAND - NIGHT
SUPER: April 24, 1916
The GASPING breaths of a dead sprint. Reeds CRACKLE under
the frenzied pace of bloodied, bare feet.
Trailing far behind the winding, stomped path . . .
An ENGLISH SOLDIER loads his rifle.
INT. REEDS – NIGHT
Awash in terror, RONAN PLUNKETT (10), squats in the reeds,
his chest heaving. He stares down at a roll of canvasses
in his clenched hand.
BOOM.
A bullet clips two reeds clean WHIZZING past Ronan’s head.
EXT. MANOR
Atop a small bluff, under the outline of a looming manor,
two more SOLDIERS take aim.
INT. REEDS
Ronan duckwalks through the reeds, his teary eyes study
the manor, sweeping over its enormity. Imprinting memories -
BOOM. BOOM.
Three feet to his right, a sapling explodes. The other
bullet smushes into mud at his feet.
EXT. MANOR
A dozen soldiers now. Two aim from a second story window.
Another stops his beating of an OLD MAN to measure a shot.
On the terrace, three more take a bead.
INT. REEDS
In this distilled moment, Ronan takes one last mental imprint
of the manor. Time almost stands -
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Whistling bullets invade the reeds.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Ronan’s up and scurrying - his free hand digs for traction.
The forest not far off.
EXT. MARSH
One SOLDIER on the hill trains his gun on the moving reeds.
His barrel sweeps from the reeds toward the forest. A thirty
yard clearing of no cover.
SOLDIER
Give it a go now.
INT. REEDS/FOREST
Hell bent, Ronan breaks for it. A four-footer with his feet
on fire. Volleys of bullets SMOOSH into the side of the hill.
Mud puckers with every bullet. A one bird turkey shoot.
Ronan dives for the forest. Bullets WHISTLE, STICK and MASH all around. He picks a direction and keeps going.
OVER: Shots wane in the distance.
The trees open up. His gait slows to a hobble. He wipes the
tears away, but the sobs bubble over.
Blood seeps across his thigh. He looks behind him, nothing.
He turns back around.
BAM. A rifle butt to the forehead.
Ronan crumples to the ground. The roll of canvases scatter
about. One lays open.
A beautiful landscape painting of the familiar marsh. A
canvas of painted reeds, wispy in the wind.
INT. PENTHOUSE - NEW YORK CITY - NIGHT
SUPER: PRESENT DAY
The green glow of night vision glasses fixed on the same
painting, now encased in an ornate frame.
A THIEF wearing a climbing harness stands before the painting.
He lifts his goggles, rubbing his eyes.
Blurry becomes clear. In the faint darkness, the ‘reeds’
almost come alive. He’s transfixed.
THIEF
(thick Irish accent)
Hello, Sir Jack. Time to come home.
A razor knife slices a precise line along the frame.
GRUFF VOICE (OS)
Gotcha, you thieving *******. So
you don’t get happy feet, I'm
holding a dead Kraut’s Luger.
A light flicks on. MR. WHITESTONE, three exits past withered, wags the gun about as he talks.
MR. WHITESTONE
I stuck my toasting fork into his
neck in Bastogne.
THIEF
You had to be in a nasty spot -
MR. WHITESTONE
Shut it.
Masterpieces sprawl across the walls, in every direction.
The painting, not yet completely cut, hangs awkwardly down
MR. WHITESTONE
You know you robbed two of my good
friends.
Gloved hands makes a slight move –
MR. WHITESTONE
Sit on the floor. Native American
like.
Whitestone steps onto a large throw carpet. He studies the
thief down the barrel of the gun.
MR. WHITESTONE
You have peculiar tastes.
The thief sits. Night vision goggles rest on his head,
obscuring our perspective.
THIEF
Taste has not a thing to do with it.
MR. WHITESTONE
So, you just scratch at the obscure and
hope you get a pretty cent for it?
THIEF
I would hardly hawk a Jack Butler Yeats
for some pretty cent.
The waggling gun beckons the thief to continue.
THIEF
That . . . that painting helps right a
century of wrongs.
MR. WHITESTONE
Lovely. Let me show you how romantic
I can be.
He takes a cell from his pocket, punching 9 - 1 - 1.
MR. WHITESTONE
Yes - this is Albert Whitestone in
Park Towers. Could you be so kind
and gather up a fellow twisting about
my gathering room floor.
(nodding)
Send an ambulance as well.
(disagreeing)
No, no. I’m fine, just - well – he
took a few in the struggle.
He winks at the thief.
MR. WHITESTONE
In the leg I think. Thank you so
much. And please, do take good
care not to wake the building.
The thief clenches the carpet as the phone clicks.
THIEF
That's a pretty tale.
MR. WHITESTONE
Is it?
Whitestone twists a silencer onto the Luger.
THIEF
Same dead German?
MR. WHITESTONE
I’ll make it a clean -
- Gloved hands yank the carpet –
The old man is hurled into the air, but gets off two
shots PHHHT. PHHHT. He lands with a deafening THUD.
THIEF
Ahh - Christ.
The thief writhes in agony, holding his shoulder.
THIEF
Ahh that’s farkin’ useless.
Blood oozes into a puddle underneath the old man’s head.
The thief moves around the growing pool and closes the
dead man’s eyes.
THIEF
Sleep soundly in god's kingdom.
A distant siren growing closer. He makes a bee-line for
the painting and rips the hanging canvas from its frame.
OVER: Heavy breathing, near hyperventilation.
FADE IN:
EXT. MARSH – GREYSTONES, IRELAND - NIGHT
SUPER: April 24, 1916
The GASPING breaths of a dead sprint. Reeds CRACKLE under
the frenzied pace of bloodied, bare feet.
Trailing far behind the winding, stomped path . . .
An ENGLISH SOLDIER loads his rifle.
INT. REEDS – NIGHT
Awash in terror, RONAN PLUNKETT (10), squats in the reeds,
his chest heaving. He stares down at a roll of canvasses
in his clenched hand.
BOOM.
A bullet clips two reeds clean WHIZZING past Ronan’s head.
EXT. MANOR
Atop a small bluff, under the outline of a looming manor,
two more SOLDIERS take aim.
INT. REEDS
Ronan duckwalks through the reeds, his teary eyes study
the manor, sweeping over its enormity. Imprinting memories -
BOOM. BOOM.
Three feet to his right, a sapling explodes. The other
bullet smushes into mud at his feet.
EXT. MANOR
A dozen soldiers now. Two aim from a second story window.
Another stops his beating of an OLD MAN to measure a shot.
On the terrace, three more take a bead.
INT. REEDS
In this distilled moment, Ronan takes one last mental imprint
of the manor. Time almost stands -
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Whistling bullets invade the reeds.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Ronan’s up and scurrying - his free hand digs for traction.
The forest not far off.
EXT. MARSH
One SOLDIER on the hill trains his gun on the moving reeds.
His barrel sweeps from the reeds toward the forest. A thirty
yard clearing of no cover.
SOLDIER
Give it a go now.
INT. REEDS/FOREST
Hell bent, Ronan breaks for it. A four-footer with his feet
on fire. Volleys of bullets SMOOSH into the side of the hill.
Mud puckers with every bullet. A one bird turkey shoot.
Ronan dives for the forest. Bullets WHISTLE, STICK and MASH all around. He picks a direction and keeps going.
OVER: Shots wane in the distance.
The trees open up. His gait slows to a hobble. He wipes the
tears away, but the sobs bubble over.
Blood seeps across his thigh. He looks behind him, nothing.
He turns back around.
BAM. A rifle butt to the forehead.
Ronan crumples to the ground. The roll of canvases scatter
about. One lays open.
A beautiful landscape painting of the familiar marsh. A
canvas of painted reeds, wispy in the wind.
INT. PENTHOUSE - NEW YORK CITY - NIGHT
SUPER: PRESENT DAY
The green glow of night vision glasses fixed on the same
painting, now encased in an ornate frame.
A THIEF wearing a climbing harness stands before the painting.
He lifts his goggles, rubbing his eyes.
Blurry becomes clear. In the faint darkness, the ‘reeds’
almost come alive. He’s transfixed.
THIEF
(thick Irish accent)
Hello, Sir Jack. Time to come home.
A razor knife slices a precise line along the frame.
GRUFF VOICE (OS)
Gotcha, you thieving *******. So
you don’t get happy feet, I'm
holding a dead Kraut’s Luger.
A light flicks on. MR. WHITESTONE, three exits past withered, wags the gun about as he talks.
MR. WHITESTONE
I stuck my toasting fork into his
neck in Bastogne.
THIEF
You had to be in a nasty spot -
MR. WHITESTONE
Shut it.
Masterpieces sprawl across the walls, in every direction.
The painting, not yet completely cut, hangs awkwardly down
MR. WHITESTONE
You know you robbed two of my good
friends.
Gloved hands makes a slight move –
MR. WHITESTONE
Sit on the floor. Native American
like.
Whitestone steps onto a large throw carpet. He studies the
thief down the barrel of the gun.
MR. WHITESTONE
You have peculiar tastes.
The thief sits. Night vision goggles rest on his head,
obscuring our perspective.
THIEF
Taste has not a thing to do with it.
MR. WHITESTONE
So, you just scratch at the obscure and
hope you get a pretty cent for it?
THIEF
I would hardly hawk a Jack Butler Yeats
for some pretty cent.
The waggling gun beckons the thief to continue.
THIEF
That . . . that painting helps right a
century of wrongs.
MR. WHITESTONE
Lovely. Let me show you how romantic
I can be.
He takes a cell from his pocket, punching 9 - 1 - 1.
MR. WHITESTONE
Yes - this is Albert Whitestone in
Park Towers. Could you be so kind
and gather up a fellow twisting about
my gathering room floor.
(nodding)
Send an ambulance as well.
(disagreeing)
No, no. I’m fine, just - well – he
took a few in the struggle.
He winks at the thief.
MR. WHITESTONE
In the leg I think. Thank you so
much. And please, do take good
care not to wake the building.
The thief clenches the carpet as the phone clicks.
THIEF
That's a pretty tale.
MR. WHITESTONE
Is it?
Whitestone twists a silencer onto the Luger.
THIEF
Same dead German?
MR. WHITESTONE
I’ll make it a clean -
- Gloved hands yank the carpet –
The old man is hurled into the air, but gets off two
shots PHHHT. PHHHT. He lands with a deafening THUD.
THIEF
Ahh - Christ.
The thief writhes in agony, holding his shoulder.
THIEF
Ahh that’s farkin’ useless.
Blood oozes into a puddle underneath the old man’s head.
The thief moves around the growing pool and closes the
dead man’s eyes.
THIEF
Sleep soundly in god's kingdom.
A distant siren growing closer. He makes a bee-line for
the painting and rips the hanging canvas from its frame.